


call it in the ring

by beamkatanachronicles



Category: Fire Pro Wrestling (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, References to Morio's Suicide, oh my god they were aibos, very stressed producer OC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:35:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28087062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beamkatanachronicles/pseuds/beamkatanachronicles
Summary: “In the end, it’s gonna be you and me in that ring together, alright? Not your father, and not mine, either. This is our fight. Remember that.”
Relationships: Saeba Sumio & Sammy the South
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2
Collections: GhM fanfiction





	call it in the ring

**Author's Note:**

> my second ghm zine v2 fic! once again you gotta wait for the ~final zine~ to see the very good very beefy illustrations these words are over, but here is the text on its own in the meantime. there are champion road beyond spoilers but also lbr 5 of us played this dlc. i also wrote up some quick explanations for the wrestling jargon for those with zero wrassling context if you wanna pop down to those!

“Notorious, it’s a pay-per-view. Your promo needs to be perfect.“

Creative's meticulousness is far from new-- nor is dodging this particular producer, who’s been hounding Sammy the South for the last fifteen minutes. But an hour before the match of his life, it’s almost more than he can bear. His eyes scan their surroundings for either an exit or a nice hole to crawl into, but backstage, there’s nothing but white walls, concrete floors, and production assistants scurrying up and down the halls. Sammy grimaces. “We’ll be fine. It’s not like I’m wrestling a stranger.” 

“That’s _why_ it's so important!” she insists. “Wrestling your old tag team partner is a big deal.”

“Don’t remind me.” 

His gaze drifts toward the thick curtain that cordons backstage off from ringside. Without pulling it back, he knows the arena doors have just opened. The noise picks up quickly as hundreds of people shuffle into their seats; dozens of conversations muddle together into a dull roar of voices. On the big screens, entrance themes and snippets of old matches play on a long loop, nearly deafening even pre-show. But when Sammy opens his mouth to protest further, Sumio Saeba stumbles through the curtain like he’s been shoved. 

“Back off, nerds!” a man bellows from the other side. “Blade’ll sign your goddamn autographs later!”

The producer gapes. Sammy, locking eyes with Sumio, raises an eyebrow. “Well,” he continues, sidling away, “if it’s _that_ big a deal, I’m gonna practice with my partner." And before she can protest, he’s escaping with his bewildered partner into the hustle and bustle of backstage. 

“You’re leaving her with my uncle?” Sumio casts a final glance back at the producer. She’s throwing up her hands and skulking past the curtain-- wrangling Grateful Saeba, no doubt. “Cold.”

“ _We’re_ leaving her.” Sammy throws an arm over Sumio’s shoulders, grinning wryly. “I’m not letting her rope you into last-minute rehearsals too.”

He smiles back, somewhat restrained. “I miss when we could just wing it.” 

“Yeah...” Sammy’s grin dissipates. The pressure’s on both of them tonight, but his words are subdued enough to give him pause. It’s not like Sumio to get cold feet. “We’re a long way from the indies now.” His arm slips away as the two step through the doorway of the locker room: empty, mercifully quiet. Sumio moves ahead to take a seat on a bench, the lull in conversation punctuated only by the door thumping closed behind them. Alone together, he’s free to pry. “Nervous?”

Read like a book as usual. Sumio seems to wilt, broad shoulders slumping forward. “It’s complicated.”

“I got time. Spill.” He settles beside him. “It’s not ‘cause you’re booked to lose, is it?” A beat. Sammy teases: "You are losing to me, right? If this is some kinda Montreal Screwjob thing--"

Sumio snorts, nudging him with an elbow. "No way. You’d kill me, and I'd deserve it.” While Sammy’s laughing it off, he continues: “It’s not that. It makes more sense if I lose now, anyway.” He leans forward and into his locker, rummaging through his things. “Build the rivalry, get folks excited for a rematch...” Finally, Sumio pulls a plain gift box into his lap. As he opens it, he glances up at Sammy, gauging his reaction; a moment later, he’s holding up a faded pair of black and red tights, carefully mended to disguise their age. 

Sammy stares, puzzled. At last-- he swears under his breath, of _course_ \-- it connects. “Your father’s...?”

“Yeah.” Sumio lowers the old tights back into the box, chewing the inside of his lower lip. “My mom left these for me last night.”

Sammy eyes the stitches: neat, but not company seamstress neat. “She patch ‘em up herself?”

“Looks like.” Sumio sighs. “Honestly, I’m surprised she kept them at all.”

He can’t really blame her. Sammy knows the story of Morio Sumisu as well as anyone else in this business. The meteoric rise of his career, the tragic end. The ex-girlfriend, caught abruptly in the media’s crosshairs, emigrating to America in a hurry to spare her unborn child the scrutiny. Morio’s suicide, almost thirty years on, still looms over the industry: his career both a legend and a cautionary tale. And sitting beside him now is that man’s son, at the very heels of Morio’s legacy. 

Sammy’s no stranger to legacies, either. The son of a wrestler himself, he’s practically grown up in the ring. But Billy the South, waiting in the stands as he’s always been, is hale and whole. Imagining this career-- this _life_ \-- without that sinks his heart like a stone. So Sammy mulls his next words over in thoughtful silence. “You do have a choice,” he begins carefully. “You really wanna wear ‘em?”

For a long time, Sumio stares down into the folds of the fabric: as if they’ll provide the answer. “I do,” he replies at last. “It’s just… hitting me all at once.” His words are deliberate-- as if, in speaking them, he’s finally fulfilling their promise. “I’ve spent my whole life chasing my father’s shadow, and I only really feel like I’ve caught up tonight. I owe it to him, to take him with me… he’s the only reason I’m here.” 

“Sumio, c’mon.” 

Taken aback, Sumio chuckles hesitantly. “Okay, you too. And Billy. And… my uncle.”

Sammy gets to his feet with a weary sigh. “And _yourself_ , dumbass.” 

“Wow.” Sumio’s mouth twists skeptically. “Even for wrestling, that was corny.” 

“I’m serious.” He extends the other man a hand. “I’m not gonna pretend to understand how you feel about your father, but I know a hell of a lot about following somebody else’s footsteps. Ever wonder why I’m Notorious, not Sammy the South, out there?” 

Dumbstruck, his eyes dart back and forth between Sammy’s open palm and the adamant expression on his face. “Oh,” Sumio answers flatly, placing his hand in his. 

“Mmhm. Pops’ idea, actually: he thought it might take some of the pressure off. If I could have a name of my own, then maybe I’d start to feel like my own wrestler, y’know?” Sammy tugs him up, squeezing his hand tight. “It might not be my place, but… I think your father would’ve wanted that for you, too.”

Sumio’s grip slackens as his hand slides out of Sammy’s. He turns those words over in his head for a moment, uncertain of what to say next. When he opens his mouth to reply, the growing commotion outside-- _“Lady, quit bustin’ my balls!”_ \--cuts his thoughts short. The two share an amused sideways glance as Grateful Saeba and the producer’s bickering drifts noisily past the locker room door before fading away.

“Listen,” Sammy continues. “In the end, it’s gonna be you and me in that ring together, alright? Not your father, and not mine, either. This is _our_ fight. Remember that.”

“Thanks, Sammy.” At last, the smile on Sumio’s face comes easy. Until, of course, it turns sly. “You’re still working for this win, though.”

“I’d expect nothing less from you, _aibo._ ”

  


* * *

  


All around them, the spotlights shine white-hot. Notorious, the defending champion, casts a fierce gaze across the squared circle at the challenger: his former tag-team partner, Blade Saeba. Those who don’t remember The Vanishing can feel it by tension alone, the energy between them like a live wire.

Blade’s “new” attire hasn’t gone unnoticed, either. Morio’s name whispers through the crowd, all eyes falling upon the son he’d left behind. But no legacies exist within the bounds of the ropes tonight-- not even that of The Vanishing. Together in the ring, it’s only Sumio and Sammy. Perhaps themselves is all they’ve ever really been: in Texas, packing thirty die-hards into a high school gym; across the South’s indie wrestling scene, road-tripping to a new promotion every week. In New York, thousands awaiting their next move with bated breath. For the first time-- for the hundredth time-- their eyes meet. They understand each other without words.

The ring of the opening bell cracks through the air. Their bodies move together in perfect sync. And, like a charm, the whole arena _pops._

**Author's Note:**

>  **creative/producer:** surprise, wrestling is fake! 'creative' is, naturally, the creative team. i was ~~too lazy to look up~~ unsure of official title but you can think of the producer character as one of the senior writing staff, but not, like, vince mcmahon. 
> 
> **promo:** any in-character scene performed to advance the in-ring ('kayfabe') story. 
> 
> **book:** either getting scheduled for a match or the predetermined outcome of a match; here, sumio is "booked" to lose. 
> 
> **[Montreal Screwjob](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Montreal_Screwjob)** : tl;dr - infamous wrestling incident where the match went off-script and the predetermined outcome was changed mid-match. very controversial, even to the point some people think the controversy was also faked for publicity! the documentary is really good!!
> 
>  **pop:** yes, there is an actual wrestling term for the crowd cheering! this is that.


End file.
